My Panties, Your Left Pocket
by prismatically inked
Summary: When people have shotgun weddings, there should be a magical breathalizer and criminal background checks at the altar. But murderers have to get married too, right? Dramione
1. In Which Hermione Regrets Winning

**dedication:** to being so close to summer that it hurts! to philosophical discussions which... somehow turns into plots about Dramione. Go figure. :) To our fellow AAG-ers for being awesome, & Saraa for her alcohol knowledge.  
><strong>disclaimer:<strong> _Harry Potter_ belongs to J.K. Rowling.**  
>notes: <strong>Hey, this is Selene (seleneswan) & Sonya (pandastacia) of the Author's Appreciation Guild. For an explanation of what _Prismatically Inked_ is, look to our profile. The shorthand explanation is that PI is a collaborative account that we use when we want to practice our writing skills and just have fun writing together without creating a million different accounts every time a different combination of writers want to work together.

This particular _drabble series_ is Dramione, as you can see, and we hope you enjoy!

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><p>Hermione could tell she wasn't in her own room the moment she returned to consciousness.<p>

She may have been part of the famous (or infamous, depending on who you asked) Golden Trio, but she was careful with the money gained from the fame to the point that she could feel how much smoother these sheets were - they didn't catch on her fingertips as she greedily grasped at the pillow, rubbing her cheek against it. If it hadn't been for the sunlight streaming through the curtain-less windows, she had no idea how much longer she would've laid there.

Luxury, after all, was rather nice.

So nice, in fact, that it had escaped her mind completely, those implications of _why she was in someone else's bed_.

There really was ever only one answer for that.

Jolting up, Hermione nearly shrieked as she realized her state of undress and jerked the sheets sprawled around her to cover up everything she deemed private and pertinent.

_What in Merlin's fugly green jumper _happened?

As she squinted in the general direction of the light, she winced at the headache that came with it and tried to suppress the raging desire to hide her head under the pillow.

And possibly never return to society.

She dove under the blankets and pillow.

The last thing she remembered... It had been Harry's twenty-second birthday, and the conclusion of his first year as an official Auror at the Ministry - a night of heavy celebration, heavy drinking, and lightweights were all around. They'd played some drinking game involving a hippogriff, a Hungarian Horntail, and three Nifflers, which had turned out to be a bundle of laughs surprisingly. She was pretty proud of herself. Eight shots at least, before her mind had slid under the table, so to speak. Ron had been drooling under the table around... oh, five shots, and Harry had been as ridiculous as her.

Now, the only question was... what happened between that eighth shot and this morning? From her state of undress, something... _naughty_ had transpired. After all, there was a sticky substance on her stomach. Peeking her head out from underneath the pillow, Hermione saw brown.

Was that what she thought it was?

She poked it tentatively before taking a small sniff and lick off off her right pointer finger.

Just as she had thought-

Chocolate body paint.

Now, to find out where she was or stay in the bed...

Considering her hangover, it would be much more comfortable to just lie there and never leave. There were just a few birds outside the open window to disturb the peace, but rather than break the charm, they enhanced it. Nestled within the sheets (the thread count _had_ to be at least 600 - whoever she had slept with last night, they were _so loaded_) sounded like a beautiful idea, but the sanctuary of the moment could be violated at any moment. If the owner of this place walked in, they'd discover her, just as bare as the day she was born.

Hermione growled some choice words under her breath.

Explore her territory it was, then.


	2. In Which Brushing Teeth Is Cathartic

**dedication:** to being done with the first year of college! to finishing AP exams! &, most importantly, to brushing teeth!  
><strong>disclaimer:<strong> _Harry Potter_ belongs to J.K. Rowling.**  
>notes: <strong>Wow, we were blown away by all of the positive reception. Bravo to you for your kind words, & we hope you continue to enjoy.

_**Sonya adds**_: & when I ever get married, I can only ever hope that it is half as amazing as Will & Elizabeth's wedding. At least Jack Sparrow learned his lesson about kissing [other people's] girls.  
><em><strong>Selene notes<strong>_: tissue boxes are a girl's best friend, especially when watching all-too-sad movies about death and lists. and on that note, listing is amazing.

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><p>Hermione Jean Granger did <em>not<em> get taken advantage of without some kind of witty retribution.

Witty, _painful_ retribution - she knew where to hit so it would hurt.

Knowledge is power, yes?

Deftly winding the pale blue sheets around her like a rudimentary toga, Hermione slipped from the bed. Her first step was a little wobbly; she would never admit how weak at the knees she'd felt or, oh, _how much it hurt to stand on her two feet_. But, the pain and weakness aside, she pulled her thoughts together and took stock of where she was.

It was clearly a man's room-that much she could tell. Which, she supposed, was a rather redundant thing to notice seeing as how there was a twinge between her legs indicating sex...with a male. She peered around the room speculatively, searching. "Now, _where_-" her muttered words were interrupted as she spotted her wand sticking out of her bag next to her discarded undergarments.

Gingerly bending down, she picked up the wand quickly, summoning the rest of her clothing to her with a quick _accio_. She dropped the sheet quickly, pulling on her panties as she inspected the rest of the room. The window's heavy draperies were drawn back and from the view, she could see that she was perhaps a few floors up in a flat in a part of London that didn't look familiar to her.

And then it registered, finally, that the _drapes were drawn back_ and that while she might know where she was, but pedestrians gazing upward might know whose room this was...and who she was.

This was just too much.

She pulled the silky jade dress back over her head hastily, backing away from the window and walking over to the ajar door that appeared to lead to an adjoining bathroom. Peering inside to make sure no one was there, she shuffled inside, staring at her appearance in the mirror, a little harebrained. Along the edge of the vanity was the bottle of chocolate body paint...and then, laying innocently next to it, an unopened toothbrush package and a tube of toothpaste.

Considerate, she supposed, as she squeezed the mint toothpaste on the brush and began scrubbing at her teeth. There was a certain joy in brushing teeth, she swore. A certain cleanliness that came with it. A feeling of freshness.

That was _almost_ a muggle toothpaste commercial, she idly thought as she spat in the sink.

She washed out her mouth, finger combed her hair, grabbed her bag and her wand and pushed out of the bathroom back into the bedroom. With great care, she approached the door which she assumed led to the rest of the flat. Pressing her ear up against it, she strained to hear movement. Not wanting to even _know_ who this person was and just leave this experience in the past, she stood, frozen, listening for signs of life.

Upon finding none, she turned the knob carefully and edged out the door and into a hallway...which led, one way, to the living room and the other to a well furnished kitchen-with gorgeous oak cabinets, she noted distractedly. She hesitated, before walking swiftly towards the kitchen with a sense of heightened efficiency, grabbing an orange from the bowl on the counter, and was so very close to turning back around to leave when she heard the footfalls.

Freezing as a wave of anxiety passed over her, her muscles locked her in place, hoping for the footsteps to pass. But as she heard the knob turn, she pivoted, already in flight mode.

She _ran_ as mutedly as her bare feet would take her, realizing belatedly that she hadn't put her shoes on and that they were still lying in the bedroom where the rest of her clothes had lain. But it was much too late for that, she thought. There was no time to get her shoes, and there was even less time to perform a spell to take her shoes with her. In the process of dodging the tasteful couch, she hit her leg clumsily against the coffee table, hissing as pain shot up her leg.

Not fast enough. Not lithe enough. Not enough.

The door pulled open as she bent down reflexively to clutch at her leg in pain, and without her own volition she peered up, her eyes catching those of Draco Malfoy's.

The last thought she had before she released her leg, bolting for the door, running as if her life depended on it (which, in her defense, it sort of did; who knows what a demented ex-Death Eater would do to her?) was the startling realization that, mother of Merlin, she had _sex._

That, in itself, wasn't too horrible. It was bad, but she's was an adult and was fully responsible. But as if that wasn't bad enough, she had sex with Malfoy.

With_ Malfoy._

Hermione wasn't one for vulgar language, but, if she were to be quite honest with herself, she was_ fucked._

(And the irony of it all was that it was, quite literally, true.)

How life loved to torment her.


	3. In Which Rings Ruin Lives

**dedication:** to the Ultimate Gary Stu, James Bond ("He has _gills_."), to conversations about how "James Bond is a mermaid! Merman. Mer...person.", to Thor, to sashimi+sushi, to the end of the world and _surviving_ it!  
><strong>disclaimer:<strong> _Harry Potter_ belongs to J.K. Rowling.**  
>notes: <strong>not to be too overly excited and scare you all off, but WE LOVE YOU.

_**Sonya flails**_: I'm currently on vacay out of the country, but there was this special about PotC 4, where they talked about it. Unfortunately, I turned it on in the last ten minutes. I WANNA SEEEE._**  
>Selene<strong>** wails**:_ there was a Harry Potter marathon on TV, but I was stuck writing essays. sob. cry cry.

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><p>The moment Hermione reached the corner of Malfoy's block, she stopped to quickly pull her thoughts together. First things first: where was she? If she was close enough to Harry and Ron's flat, she would just walk - or run there. As it was, she was hungover enough without adding the twirling on the spot like a drunken house-elf and ripping through time and space with a motion not unlike that of a Muggle's clothes dryer.<p>

Just the thought of it made her nauseous, and she resisted the urge to retch.

Walk it off, Granger, walk it off...

... Or not.

Slightly paranoid, she darted a glance over her right shoulder to see if she was being followed by that blond... conman - because he had conned her - well, not out of her virginity, but he had conned her out of her clothes and into his bed!

All against her will!

She bit her lower lip slightly as memories from the night before _insisted_ on being shared and felt blood make its way to stain her face a nice shade of fire hydrant red.

... Against her conscious will had to count, right? After all, if she hadn't been inebriated, she would've turned him into a tea cozy if he had so much as had a thought of taking her to bed.

Yeah.

Anyway, she wasn't being followed, and if even if she was, the streets of Wizarding London were flooded as prime shopping hours commenced, making it hard to tell who was following whom.

Figured Malfoy would live in the classiest neighborhood in the city.

Gazing into the window of an antique furniture store, she saw a grandfather clock. Ten-thirty? Well, that explained _everything_. Women - dressed in the most ridiculous hats, to be honest - like, what was that pink... _thing_ on that woman's head? How did she have the nerve to leave the house with that on the top of her head? - streamed out of the spas and jewelry stores for brunch at the best cafes London had to offer.

Unfortunately, all of this was far from the flat that her best mates lived in and so Hermione stiffened her shoulders and turned on the spot, picturing the dark red mahogany of the front door and the light hanging over it, the whole building surrounded by haphazardly trimmed grass.

Passing through the... nothingness that was Apparating made her just as queasy as expected. It felt like all of her was being squeezed in a small box - one that could fit her pinky finger, actually - and then twisted again. And again. And again.

Hermione didn't realize she'd closed her eyes tightly until all of the shifting had stopped but everything was still dark. Opening one eye at a time, she found herself in the right place, although it looked like this time, Harry had taken it into his own hands to maintain the lawn. The sun was still almost an hour and a half from being straight over head, and, smiling, she trotted up the steps.

She supposed she could have Apparated straight inside, but besides the lack of manners required to do so, it was just a bad lapse of judgment. The last time she'd done that - because they assured her it was alright for her to do so - she'd dropped in on Ron and Romilda Vane.

Literally.

She hadn't felt too bad about that, even if it was a bit weird, staring at your ex with another girl; after all, she and Ron had only been broken up for a month when that had happened. Even if it had been because they were just... awkward and too... sibling-y to date, it had hurt. They were too comfortable with each other in a way he and Hermione hadn't been. It had taken... years, for them to get to the stage where they'd get past first base, no matter how fast they had gone from not kissing to making out. Getting all the way around the bases in less than a month with a different girl... Well...

Hermione was a big girl, though - she could admit the truth to herself. It hurt, being replaced, especially when your pride didn't allow yourself to think that you were being replaced better than you could replace them.

But then Harry had run in at the shriek, spilling hot coffee on all of them in his haste. Probably thought Lord Voldemort had decided to crash for the night or something.

A disaster, like always.

Chuckling at the memory, she knocked on the door and waited for one of the boys - her men, technically, but... boys fit them all better, if that made any sense - to answer.

It didn't take long.

There were a few loud thumps as someone bounded in her direction before the door flew open and a cheerful Ron was standing there. "Hermione!" She held her arms out. After the... short yet terribly long events since she woke up, she needed a hug.

But then her friend paused and she gulped. "What?"

"Why are you wearing your clothes from yesterday?"

Hermione had an answer for that, but just as she opened her mouth, she heard Harry shuffle over to the door with a sleepy mumble of, "Who is that, Ron?" before poking his disheveled head out.

"Harry!"

"'Mione." He smiled at her before his green eyes zeroed in on her left hand.

"Hermione... what's with the ring?"

The... _what_?

Her eyes darted to the same hand he was looking at.

"How in the name of Merlin's left shoe did I not see that?"

Okay... So she didn't have an answer for that...


	4. In Which Matrimony Means Murder

**dedication:** to sunsets and falling stars, to green nail polish, to not having enough time to make dedications, to _finally _applying makeup, to sunsets, and to sunglasses.  
><strong>disclaimer:<strong> _Harry Potter_ belongs to J.K. Rowling.**  
>notes: <strong>details, details, details. so many itty bitty nitty gritty teesy weensy details to cover. but love all around!

_**Sonya speaks**_: i hate being rushed. i hate packing & unpacking & living out of a bag, even more when i'm being rushed to do all of it. but i love everyone else._**  
>Selene<strong>** squeaks**:_ my nails are the color of kermit the frog. you jelly? =.=; I can't believe I just said "jelly" and not in context to the preservative that is applied to toast.

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><p>To be honest, Hermione wasn't sure how these things sprang up on her. A large portion of her life had revolved around trying to catch a pale snake-human hybrid with seven mutilated parts of one soul. Seven years of her life, to be exact. It was after the war was over that she thought, finally, things would begin to die down. The Death Eaters were rounded up and dealt punishment as was seen fit by the new members of the Ministry, and she went back to Hogwarts to finish her final year.<p>

But after that, things had settled. She now had a steady job at the Ministry of Magic...and things were as normal as they'd ever been.

But with the appearance of this ring on her finger...she wasn't sure how long that small interlude of normalcy would last.

As she blinked, staring at the gold and silver and _huge_ diamond ring on her finger, she could only think of one thing: side-track Ron and Harry.

"It's...a long story. Anyways, how are you two? Hungover?"

Easily distracted, Ron began to whine. "It was _horrible, _'Mione. I didn't even drink as much as the two of you," he bemoaned with a tinge of embarrassment, "and I woke up feeling like someone had gotten Merlin and all of his wacky relatives to bludgeon me on the headc with pick-axes _repeatedly_ for _hours_."

Hermione stepped past the entranceway as Ron was blabbering about his pains, smoothing her dress out anxiously as she unceremoniously dropped her bag on the ground.

She could smell the evidence of tea in the air and, blocking out Ron, she followed the scent to the kitchen she was so familiar with. Spying the tea kettle on the stove, she poured herself a cup in an effort to calm her jittery nerves, and they all sat down at the simple, wooden kitchen table.

"...and I don't think I ever want to leave the house again."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Ronald, leaving the house is _not_ going to get you a hangover. Making bad decisions is going to get you a hangover."

_But leaving the house, it seems, might get someone like me wrapped in someone else's bed sheets. _She shook that thought aside, continuing on.

"Also, not drinking enough water after you've had copious amounts of alcohol gets you a hangover," she quipped, brining the teacup to her lips.

Ron squinted at her. "How do _you_ know so much about hangovers?"

Hermione shot him a flat glance. "I _read_, Ron."

And on that note, Hermione took a large sip of her tea.

Harry, having been sitting up straight and attempting to at least listen, slid down in his seat then, his feet stretched out as he yawned widely, pushing a hand through his already perpetually messy hair.

"Long night?" Hermione asked sympathetically. She knew how _that_ felt.

Harry mumbled some unintelligible response, and Hermione pushed the tea kettle to him. As Harry finally got the energy to sit up again and pour the tea, they settled into a comfortable silence, Hermione pouring over the Prophet about the recent news of the killing of a Greengrass family member.

"Hm. That's interesting," Hermione commented offhandedly.

Ron, who was busy pushing around the tea leaves at the bottom of his cup with a finger, looked up. "What?"

"Daphne's father was killed yesterday. You know, Daphne Greengrass? She was in our year at Hogwarts. Slytherin."

It was then that the owl came swooping through the window, dropping a piece of parchment in Harry's lap from its beak, helping itself to the owl treats that were left by the window, and swooping back out again. Harry sat up from where he'd been slumped in his chair, untying and unraveling the note before a small, satisfied smirk curled on the corners of his list.

"Well, that's a happy coincidence," Harry spoke, a spark of something from another time in his tone.

"What?" Ron demanded.

"We've got a new case. Apparently, Malfoy's suspected of killing Greengrass last night. We get to lock him up!"

Hermione dropped her teacup to the table with a clatter. Harry and Ron turned to look at her. "What?" they both said simultaneously.

"I have to go," she murmured chaotically, and then again, with more force. "I have to go." She pushed her chair backwards from the table, and it scraped loudly against the floor. Her eyes, though, were trained on the ring on her finger.

And, without thinking about what she was saying or who she was speaking to, she grabbed her bag, about to apparate quickly out of Harry's flat when the words escaped from her lips. "Merlin, I'm _married_ to a _murderer_."


	5. In Which Hermione Has Pitching Skillz

**dedication:** to having enormous to-do lists, to collab-ing long distance, to having ineffectual poll results, to the blasphemy of having to pay $4 for internet at starbucks, and to watching late night horror movies while knowing it's a very bad idea.  
><strong>disclaimer:<strong> _Harry Potter_ belongs to J.K. Rowling.  
><strong>notes: <strong>mwah! kisses!

_**Sonya speaks**_: i reallyreallyreally want to get back into xxxHolic. & finally get into tsubasa. but in the meantime, does anyone have any book recs? .;;_**  
>Selene<strong>** giggles**:_ got myself some cookie dough! baking time! 8)

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><p>In an instant, Hermione found herself at her doorstep.<p>

Some days, she wished that some safety precautions were not necessary. For instance, the anti-apparating spell she had applied to her apartment. She had gotten the idea in her copy of _Hogwarts, A History_ upon her first read a little over eleven years ago, but it had taken until her seventh year to actually find the spell. Of course, it meant that she didn't have to worry about anyone - besides Dobby, may he rest in peace - apparating into her home unexpected, whether it was the next Dark Lord wannabe or Ron and Harry, after some alcohol or her stash of Red Vines.

But it also meant that she could be accosted outside her house once Harry and Ron got over their shock.

Needless to say, Hermione didn't take much time to let herself in. She had the key in the door and quickly locked the door behind her, dropping her bag by the front door.

Sighing, she walked into her bedroom. Absorbed in her thoughts, she brushed the straps of the dress off of her shoulder. It fell to the floor, and she stepped out of it to find a pair of shorts and tank-top.

What was she going to do? Walking out of her room, Hermione pulled the shorts on. First things first - she'd get a biscuit. She'd made a batch the day before for Harry's birthday, and she figured that one would probably help her get over the news, that not only was she married, but that she was married to the prime suspect in a murder investigation. Then, after that, she'd either go find Draco, push him against a wall, demand him explain _what the hell had possessed him to take her to a freaking chapel_, and then demand a divorce (because, like it or not, it was a wee bit late for an annulment).

Or maybe demand an divorce before answers?

She ignored the small part of her that insisted on another round before answers and a divorce.

Lost in thought, Hermione padded quietly to the kitchen.

She was pulling her tank-top on upon entering the room.

At least, that had been the plan.

You know, the plan before she saw a certain murderous ferret making himself a long espresso from the machine Ginny had gotten her for last Christmas.

"What are you doing here?" she gasped as she slowly inched her way around him to the biscuit tin. Maybe it was a stupid mood - she should be going to find her wand in her bag - but... she needed a biscuit.

And answers, of course.

Blindly grasping at the lid, Hermione stared at Draco Malfoy - who was calmly stirring her favorite mug (the one with the kitten chasing a cotton fluff) unnecessarily.

"I thought you'd have questions, surely," he said coolly before taking a sip of the coffee, that cocky grin stuck on his face. "But you aren't really the type to ask questions are you, _Hermione_? You answer questions. So... I'm actually curious to know how you deal with asking questions for once."

"I do ask questions!" she blurted, agitated. Hermione didn't know why she said that - it wasn't really important. What _was_ important was that she figured out why he was in her flat. _He's just trying to get to you, Granger. Don't you dare let him succeed_, said the voice in her head that sounded oddly like Harry.

_Turn him into a turtle, put his turtle feet into cement blocks, and then punt him into the Thames_, advised Ron's voice (though the words sounded much more twin-ish than Ron-ish, incidentally).

"Once in a green moon."

"_Blue_ - no, let's get back on track - what are you doing in my flat?"

"Well, _love_, now that we are married, all that's yours is mine."

Her mouth fell open as she gave him the most disbelieving look she could muster. "A few things, _sweetheart-_ one: I am not anyone's love, least of all yours. Two: I do too ask questions - remember the Chamber of Secrets? Yeah, I asked Professor McGonagall about that. Second year. Three: I want answers. Four: Divorce. Now." She paused for a moment before adding, "Five: how the hell did you get in here?"

"_Love_," his voice caressed the word and it was all she could do to not press him against the wall and - choke him until he signed the papers. "_Love_, do you have any idea how many women would want to be wearing that ring right now? And to answer your last question, I'm actually much smarter than you have always given me credit for. After looking through all of the standard places one hides their key, I realized that, in fact, your _lock_ was the _key_. Therefore, it only made sense that the peephole was the lock."

Making a mental note to change her security system, she spat, "Well, _darling_, then why don't you give it to one of those psychotic morons and leave me alone?"

"Only with you."

Hermione hadn't realized that she had been stalking closer and closer to Malfoy until she felt the heat from his coffee mug sandwiched between them and the warmth of his breath against her neck as he looked down on her with that frustrating gleam in his eyes.

Like he'd outwitted her, or something.

She froze - it was only natural. Perhaps she was cornering him in a physical sense, but she felt, despite her intelligence, that she had walked into a trap that had closed around her.

It was at that point that she realized he had, in a way.

She was only in her bra and shorts and she was almost pressed against him.

In a flash, she pulled the tank-top on with such speed that would've made Harry proud.

Tricked by bloody Draco Malfoy. Who would have thought?

Having more clothes on didn't make her feel any better, though. It seemed thinner than she remembered, especially as Malfoy's eyes lit up with something... dark and hot with a dash of arrogance that made her wary.

Then he opened his mouth and she knew then that she wouldn't like what he had to say.

"You know, it's not like I haven't seen you in less."

Hermione couldn't help it; she shrieked and threw her biscuit at his gale grey eyes.


	6. In Which Draco Applies To St Mungos

**dedication:** to Tumblr! to late nights & early mornings! to Pottermore! & to you, dear readers, & your patience! :)  
><strong>disclaimer:<strong> _Harry Potter_ belongs to J.K. Rowling.  
><strong>notes:<strong> Ack! Sorry - I (being Sonya) was... distracted. By a lot of things, so I messed up our updating schedule. DON'T HATE ME. D:

_**Sonya does cartwheels**_: The only good thing about Stats is that it offers me a lot of time to write._**  
>selene hums: <strong>_so I've been having a weird succession of dreams about car crashes and living at hogwarts and falling into ponds and falling in love; they're rather fun!_**  
><strong>_

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><p>And all Draco did was calmly dodge the bullet, ahem, <em>biscuit<em>, and smirk at her in that arrogant fashion of his, leaning back against the counter top. And then, _he took a sip of his espresso._

There was a strong silence in which Hermione simply stood there in shock at his completely unruffled mannerisms. He was acting as though he _hadn't_ just broken into her apartment and he _hadn't_ made himself an espresso in _her_ favorite mug and he _hadn't_ seen her without a shirt on and he _hadn't_ declared that they were married and that he'd _seen her in less_.

He was acting as though she _hadn't_ just married a wanted _criminal_.

Hermione Granger was conflicted. Part of her just wanted to curl up on the floor of her kitchen and cry at the utter horror of her situation and another part wanted to chuck more biscuits and wipe that smug look off of his face. But instead, she settled on seething.

"Draco. Malfoy. We _will_ be getting a divorce. You will agree and we _will_ part ways respectfully and cordially. _You_ will head off to Azkaban, and _I _will head off to the Ministry. On opposite ends of the spectrum, just as we should be," she hissed through clenched teeth.

Draco's lips turned downward slightly, and for Hermione, a small battle was won. "Azkaban?"

"Yes. You know, that place where murderers such as yourse-"

"I did _not_ kill Daphne's father," he sneered. "That worthless piece of trash isn't worth my time." He waved his hand around for emphasis, in the process, spilling a little of the espresso on the floor.

"You _spilled_ on my floor!" Hermione shrieked, completely sidetracked by the mess. She pushed past him, making way to clean it up Muggle-style with the napkin on the counter, but instead knocked the mug out of his hand where it tumbled to the floor, shattering with a loud crash and the rest of the espresso splattered onto the floor.

There was a long silence. Hermione was frozen, halfway to the floor. Draco hadn't moved a muscle. Slowly, Hermione straightened up, stepping out of range of the broken glass, and stated in a controlled tone. "You broke my favorite mug."

Draco didn't respond.

"You _broke_ my favorite mug."

"I don't see what the big deal is; a simple _reparo_ will fix it," he muttered, nonchalant. "It was your fault, anyways."

Hermione didn't even look at him when she replied, sullen. "_Reparo_ may fix this mess, but it can't fix everything."

There was another long silence.

And suddenly, the proximity between the two of them was so much heavier and tense that she instinctively stepped backwards...

...onto the shattered glass.

Instantly, pain bloomed in the sole of her foot and she stepped back with the same foot, only managing to land herself in more shards. She could feel them as they sliced through her foot with ease, and the stinging, burning sensation of the espresso in her wounds and her foot was on _fire_ and she let out a hiss and a sound of pain.

All she felt was the fire.

And then there were hands on her forearms and she didn't understand why she was being forced into place but she could hear the glass pieces clink against each other as they were briskly moved and then she was tossed over a shoulder and she was bleeding and...

She could feel a rivulet make its way up her calf with ease as she kicked, a sense of pride in.

"I don't nee-" she protested.

But by that time, the two of them were in her cramped bathroom and she was somehow on the toilet seat and he handed her a towel and told her to bite on it and she didn't _understand_ because her _foot was on fire_ and there was espresso and blood dripping all over the place. And then she felt the first yank.

Her fingers clenched around the towel and she felt the small triangle of glass being pulled out of her foot.

"What are you doin-" she shrieked, then as he pulled out several small pieces in succession. She breathed heavily and her fingers were clenched around the towel for dear life. "_Stop_; you're not a heal-" And then more pieces were tugged out and she could feel the blood flowing from her foot increase.

Her eyes clamped themselves shut. And then her foot was yanked over yet another time underneath the faucet in the tub and it was washed out and there was red spinning down the drain...

And then the pain was gone. The cuts had closed up and all that was left to suggest that she had ever had a torn up foot in the first place was the blood drops on the floor and the pile of bloody glass next to the sink.

"You're welcome, _love_."

She wasn't even given the opportunity to dignify that with any sort of snide response because suddenly, there were two sets of footsteps in her house-heavy, foreign footsteps. And then, "Bloody _hell_."

Ron. Of _course._

There was a silence, and in that, Hermione could only hear one thing: ridiculous assumptions. "_Merlin_, Harry, Hermione's _dead!_ Look at all the blood and the glass and the-it was the _Malfoy._ He's killed Hermione!"


	7. In Which Lotion Is Decidedly Unsexy

**dedication: **to leaving high school; to diamonds in the rough; to remembering you were kind of writing a collab last summer... eight months later; to summertime!  
><strong>disclaimer: <strong>We do solemnly swear we do not own any part of Harry Potter; just the plot.

**Sonya dances:** Tell me something true. For my part, it's been a long time, but I've finished my second year of college & now it's summer, so... hopefully more updates?**  
>selene floats: <strong>in my moments of thought, I wonder what possessed tradition to allow people to walk across the stage in garbage bag gowns and call it a celebration of education.**  
><strong>

* * *

><p>It was making out to be a very good weekend, Draco reflected. It was only Saturday and he had already been accused of two different murders.<p>

Father would probably be so incredibly proud, since at least one of the "murdered" had been an... "undesirable".

(That he was legally married to, so maybe not so proud.)

Despite the slight humor behind the situation, he didn't take the time to feel pleasure at it; instead, he took advantage of the mini chaos to shrink into his Animagus form.

Shrinking down and feeling his entire anatomical structure change to accommodate a tail and claws had not yet become familiar to him, but he definitely preferred gaining that sort of familiarity over that of a jail cell in Azkaban. As soon as the transformation was complete, he skittered under the sink to watch the proceedings.

Hermione had broken off her conversation with Harry in the middle of Ron's frantic planning, and, in a flash, stood in front of him. It almost seemed to Draco that her face contorted in a small grimace of pain at the quick steps, but it was gone with a blink of his attentive eyes.

Then came the crack. He nearly missed it entire, but red quickly bloomed on Weasley's left cheek.

Based on the look on Ron's face, Draco hadn't been the only one surprised. Potter, however, just looked resigned.

Apparently, Hermione was regularly feisty.

(Not that it wasn't something he'd considered when he'd put his plan together - she had slapped him third year, after all.

And last night.)

"Get it together, Ronald," she was saying sharply. When he just gave her a bleary, mildly confused look, Hermione snapped in front of his eyes. "Believe it or not, but I _am_ a witch and I _know_ how to cast spells. You didn't Apparate here when you barged into my flat uninvited, did you? He couldn't have Apparated... Maybe a transformation spell? What do you think, Harry?"

The Chosen Boy (or Man - whatever he was called nowadays - the Savior, maybe) was leaning against the mahogany cabinet, watching the proceedings thoughtfully. At Hermione's inquiry, he took his time answering.

"That, or an invisibility spell. Does anything in this room seem off to you?"

Draco watched Hermione as she warily cast her eye around the room, looking for even the tiniest detail that was out of place. He slinked closer to the wall and a green bucket in the hopes of finding deeper cover just when Weasley made a move in his direction. His hand was outstretched, fingers clenched to snatch something up.

The weasel closed his eyes and tensed, ready to face the Aurors, Veritaserum, and Christina Warbeck marathons...

... only to hear, "I didn't know you kept this! Figured you'd throw it away since it was kind of a gag gift."

Opening his eyes, Draco saw Weasley dangle the lotion he had previously been hiding behind in Hermione's face. Her cheeks looked a little more flushed than they had before as she continued to scan the room, but Draco didn't need to be a whiz at emotions and human reactions to know she was looking for a way out.

"It's decent lotion," she mumbled.

Potter seemed to be uncomfortable as well, and the part of Draco that wasn't systematically looking for a way out wondered what had happened. A tub of lotion, a feeling the Golden Trio had been struck with Third Wheel Syndrome...

He was almost curious to know how it all added up, but the thing about awkwardness was that everyone is so distracted by their thoughts and the atmosphere that escape was easy.

Keeping close to the wall, he used the plants strewn around the window side of the room as cover before making a safe hop onto the windowsill and the fire escape below. He stopped there, listening as they shuffled around the room.

"So what happened?" one of the guys asked hesitantly. As Draco slipped back into his own form, he couldn't tell if it was Weaselbee or Scar Head, but he was pretty sure it was the latter.

"When?"

He hadn't heard the weariness in her voice before, but now, it seemed to seep through the open window, drowning him in its cloying decay. It only sapped the life out of his flagging energy stores after his transformation. No one had told him how tiring it was at first; it was different than Hermione's tired tone, but just as debilitating.

"Just now. Or last night. Start somewhere. Anywhere."

That was Weasley, he thought blearily, sliding a hand through his hair. He knew he had to get out soon, before one of them took an innocent look out of the window and saw him. Draco wasn't willing to test their skills with curses at the moment. Maybe later, though.

Perhaps he should try standing soon. Or crawling.

"I stepped on a broken mug," she said shortly. "He helped clean it out of my foot - finished just as you barged in."

Plastic landed on the ground; he figured she was checking under the sink. Her window would be next.

He had to go.

Slowly, he pulled himself down the stairs of the fire escape, clutching the iron bars with every movement. His knees protested being dragged across the hard metal bars and falling a few inches onto the next one, but he persisted.

It wasn't like he had another choice.

"So he wasn't trying to kill you? But he had so much blood on his hands!"

Draco didn't hear how Hermione responded to Ron. By the tail end of his comment, the blond had already been walking briskly away from the staircase. The sounds of late morning downtown London covered his footsteps as he blended into the crowd of people, most of whom were probably just returning to work after a quick lunch.

His arms were stiff as he kept his palms by his side, hidden from view.

There was only one place left to him, the young man reflected as he looked for a good spot to Apparate among a whole lot of Muggles. His own home was lost to him, and Diagon Alley probably had WANTED posters of him all over the place.

Living among Muggles, without magic? Rather unacceptable.

He peeked down at his hands when there was a lull in the crowd around him.

In more ways than one, Weasley was right, Draco thought cynically.

He had a lot of blood on his hands.


End file.
